


Honeymoon Cabin

by dragongirlG



Series: Come Home [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alpine the Cat, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Consensual Sex, Domestic Fluff, Happy Ending, Horny Bucky Barnes, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Modern Bucky Barnes, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Prayer, Sexual Identity, Slow Build, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 03:40:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17236700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongirlG/pseuds/dragongirlG
Summary: Bucky’s heading back from the grocery store when he sees him: a tall blonde man about his age in a brown leather jacket, standing next to a motorcycle that’s parked right in front of the turn-off to the cabin.“Hey,” said Bucky, rolling down his window and getting a faceful of cold, wet air. He grimaces and calls, “You lost?”The blonde man leans in towards Bucky. He looks vaguely familiar, in a weird All-American poster boy kind of way, but Bucky’s sure he’s never met him. “Excuse me?”“I said, are you lost? You’re parked right in front of my driveway. I got a truck full of groceries, and I need to get in.”Or: After a misunderstanding about the rental availability of the famed Honeymoon Cabin, two lonely men end up falling in love during a winter snowstorm that strands them in the same place. A Shrunkyclunks holiday AU featuring veteran Bucky, post-Chitauri-road-trip Steve, and Bucky’s white cat Alpine.





	Honeymoon Cabin

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the House of Stucky Discord 2018 Secret Santa as a gift for mrs-dr-strange. I hope you enjoy it! I've never written a Shrunkyclunks AU before, so it was a fun challenge. 
> 
> This fic takes place in December 2012, about seven months after the Battle of New York. 
> 
> Additional warnings: please note that this fic contains discussions of and references to sexual identity, safe sex practices, prosthetics, PTSD, ableism, and religious rituals (Jewish and Catholic prayers). If I have missed warning for anything, please let me know in the comments.

Bucky’s heading back from the grocery store when he sees him: a tall blonde man about his age in a brown leather jacket, standing next to a motorcycle parked right in front of the turn-off to the cabin. Bucky huffs, slowly releases his foot from the gas pedal, and carefully rolls to a stop. It’s only sleet coming down now, but the roads are going to ice up soon, and Bucky would really like to be home and unloaded before dark.

“Hey,” said Bucky, rolling down his window and getting a faceful of cold, wet air. He grimaces and calls, “You lost?”

The blonde man leans in towards Bucky. He looks vaguely familiar, in a weird All-American poster boy kind of way, but Bucky’s sure he’s never met him. “Excuse me?”

“I said, are you lost? You’re parked right in front of my driveway. I got a truck full of groceries, and I need to get in.”

The man blinks slowly, his eyes darting toward his motorcycle and then to Bucky’s truck. “Oh,” he says, with a sad frown, “Sorry about that. I’ll move it.”

Bucky notices that the man didn’t answer the question, but he’s too impatient to follow up on it. “Thanks, pal. I’d appreciate it.”

Bucky waits for the man to rev the motorcycle and get going, but the man doesn’t do that. Instead, he squats down, heaves a grunt, and _lifts_ the motorcycle up by the front and back wheel struts. Bucky does not stare at the curve of the man’s ass. He _doesn’t_ , because the man is wearing old-man khakis and Bucky can’t really see his ass even if he tries. He does, however, stare at the show of strength, because he knows from experience that motorcycles—especially a Harley like that one—are really damn heavy, and there aren’t many guys that can just heave them up like they’re a large dog instead of 500 pounds of metal and rubber.

“Uh,” says Bucky intelligently. The man carefully squats back down and places the motorcycle six feet away on the narrow curb, then looks at Bucky for approval.

“Is that okay?” asks the man.

“Uh, yeah,” says Bucky, blinking sleet out of his eyes. “Yeah. That’s great.” He vaguely wonders if he’s having some sort of holiday hallucination a la _Home Alone_ , decides he doesn’t feel like getting into a existential crisis, and promptly turns into the driveway, winding through the familiar wooded, gravel path until he reaches the cabin.

It takes him a good half hour to unload the groceries. They’re mostly dry goods—canned soups, beans, crackers—to stock up for the inclement weather that’s been predicted for the upcoming week, but he did manage to buy some fresh fruit and veggies from the local farmer’s market just before it closed. His little white cat Alpine isn’t anywhere, but Bucky isn’t worried; she’ll come back before dark after she’s had enough of hunting squirrels or getting petted by the unsuspecting retirees that serve as Bucky’s neighbors.

Bucky kindles a fire in the fireplace, drinks a glass of water, and sweeps the perimeter of the house. He’s tempted to sink into the couch and relax with the next installment of Asimov’s _Foundation_ series, which he recently picked up on sale at the used bookstore in town, but his anxiety nags at him to go check to see if the blonde man has left the property. He sighs and pulls his down jacket back on, grumbling.

When Bucky trudges back down the driveway, he sees that the man is still there, squinting at what looks like an actual paper map that he’s attempting to shelter with his leather jacket. A vintage canvas hiking backpack is hanging on his left shoulder. Bucky hadn’t noticed it before. The motorcycle is still standing where the man placed it, and Bucky wonders if its engine is dead.  Bucky heaves a sigh, glances up at the sky—the sun will start setting in fifteen minutes, even if he can’t see it due to the cloud cover—and clears his throat loudly. The man tenses and turns around warily.

“Do you need directions, or a tow, or something?” asks Bucky.

The man looks embarrassed. “Sorry,” he says, shoving the map into his pants pocket. “I just thought—I was looking for the Honeymoon Cabin?”

Oh, no. No no _no._

The Honeymoon Cabin is the former name of Bucky’s house. Last year he bought it off a retired couple, the Painters, who rented the cabin out to newlyweds and couples when they weren’t off traveling internationally or visiting family in other states. With its gorgeous surrounding woods, modern amenities, and nearness to a major national park and tourist town in the Pacific Northwest, it quickly became a viral sensation that gave the Painters an unspeakably large passive income and an overwhelming amount of stress. In autumn of last year, they’d decided they’d had enough of “dealing with Airbnb nonsense” and put the cabin up on the market, choosing to move in with their oldest child in the city so that they could spend more time with their grandchildren and be closer to the airport.

Bucky had just gotten out of the hospital when the cabin went on sale. With the army backpay he’d earned while M.I.A. and the money he’d inherited and put into savings before deployment, he’d managed to scrape together enough for a down payment, along with a relatively reasonable monthly mortgage payment provided he kept a steady job. (He had, thankfully, found a job shortly after his discharge as a translator for a professional voice transcription company that allowed him to work from home.) The Painters had taken it upon themselves to help him furnish the house and teach him how to live in it, showing him how to chop wood, work the fireplace, and do general maintenance of the house. Bucky had been worried that they would retract the offer at the last minute, but it turned out that all they really wanted was to make sure that they left the house in good hands. Apparently Bucky had met their criteria.

Bucky was the one who went online and messaged all the review sites to tell them that the Honeymoon Cabin was now closed. He’d helped the Painters set up an automatic reply on the old cabin reservation email saying something to the same effect. Beyond a few disappointed email responses and one angry Yelp review citing the “inconvenience”, Bucky hadn’t had to deal with much confusion from people who were looking to stay there. He has no idea how this man had somehow missed the memo.

The man’s still looking at him hopefully, though with each passing second of silence from Bucky his shoulders are slumping by another fraction. “Is this, um, is this not the right location?” he asks. “The brochure I read said—”

 _Brochure?_   Bucky’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline, and the man stops, shutting his jaw with a snap. He straightens his shoulders and says formally, “I’m sorry to inconvenience you. I’ll go into town and find somewhere else to stay.” Then he startles abruptly, because Alpine has just appeared and started winding around his ankles, purring like a motorboat and rubbing her dirty white fur all along the hem of his khakis. The man stiffens, looking at the cat with wide eyes.

“Al, hey, come here,” Bucky says, holding out his hand.

Alpine looks at Bucky, meows, and continues to wind around the man’s legs. The man looks at Bucky with a question in his eyes.

Bucky shrugs. “Go on, she won’t bite or scratch. She loves getting petted.”

“I—okay,” says the man, bending down slowly and hesitantly placing a hand on Alpine’s back. Alpine lets out a pleased purr and rubs her head against his palm. The man’s face softens and he smiles a little. Bucky can feel his own lips twitching up into a grin, but he quickly schools his face as the man looks back up and says, “I’m Steve.”

“James, but you can call me Bucky,” says Bucky. “That’s Alpine, Al for short.”

“Is he—she yours?”

Bucky nods. “She. And yes.”

Alpine meows in protest as Steve stands, brushing off his pants. “I ought to get going. I’m sorry again.” He shivers, looking up at the rapidly darkening sky. “The closest town is about ten miles down the road, right? I’m sure there will be a vacancy somewhere.”

“There probably won’t,” Bucky blurts out. “It’s Christmas Eve, and everything within a fifteen-mile radius has probably been booked by tourists.”

“Oh,” Steve says, hunching his shoulders against a sudden gust of wind. “Well, it’s okay. I’ll—I’ll just drive till I see somewhere I can camp out.”

Bucky takes in the man’s utter lack of outdoor gear (minus his military-issue boots), the wet hair plastered to his forehead, and the sleek motorcycle still sitting forlornly on the side of the road. He closes his eyes, fervently hopes that he isn’t about to get murdered, and then says, “Hey, look. There’s no need to do that. You’re actually in the right place. It’s just that the Honeymoon Cabin is…uh, it’s private property now. It’s my house. But just – come in. I can put you up for the night.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Really? Thank you, Bucky.”  

“Yeah, well, I can’t let that beautiful Harley get all wet and rusty just because its owner got some outdated information,” says Bucky, bending down and picking up a protesting Alpine. “Come on, you can walk the bike up the path.”

Bucky directs Steve to put the Harley under the carport next to the truck, then lets him into the cabin and shows him to the living room, where the fire is crackling merrily. Steve follows Bucky’s lead in shedding his boots at the door, leaving his feet in snowflake-patterned blue and black wool socks. He hesitantly sets his backpack down near his shoes, then sheds his leather jacket on the couch, revealing a blue button-down shirt straining tightly against a broad chest.

Bucky stares for a moment too long, then says quickly, “Let me, um, let me just make sure everything’s ready. I’ll be right back.” He hastily flees to the kitchen, half-hiding behind the pantry as he refills Alpine’s food and water bowls.

“Not the time,” he mutters to himself, adjusting his half-chub in his jeans. “He may be hot, but he’s a stranger. And probably Mormon, given the khakis and the blondeness. And probably straight, given my luck.”

Alpine gives him a judgmental look, then commences gulping down her food like she’s been starving for a week. “Yeah, yeah, I fed you eight hours ago,” Bucky says with a sigh. He shakes out his left shoulder—his experimental StarkTech prosthetic just got its quarterly tune-up last week, along with a replacement bioelectric veil to make it look even more like a real flesh arm—and he’s still adjusting to its increased sensitivity. Bucky quickly pulls up his hair into a ponytail with the hair tie he always keeps around his right wrist, then he takes a deep breath, trying to remember exactly how to be a good host.

“Towels,” he mutters. “Clean sheets. Maybe a toothbrush, toothpaste. And then food?”

Bucky returns to the living room after switching out the sheets and dumping a pile of towels and travel-sized toiletries onto the bed. Alpine is curled up in Steve’s lap, purring up a storm as Steve continuously strokes one hand along her back. Steve looks up as Bucky enters, smiling sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to steal her.”

Bucky waves his left hand, startling minutely at the sensation that runs through the prosthetic. “Don’t worry about it. Al goes where she wants. Good luck getting up to use the bathroom, though.”

“Thanks for taking me in,” says Steve. “This is a really nice place. I like your miniature Christmas tree.”

“Oh,” says Bucky, glancing at the plastic tree he’d placed on the end table next to the couch. He’d bought it as a joke during Black Friday in a meager attempt to imbue the place with some holiday spirit, and then he had promptly forgotten about it. “Uh, thanks.”

“Can I help with anything?”

Bucky shrugs. “Are you hungry? I was just going to make some chicken soup. You could help me chop up some veggies.”

“I’d be happy to help you do that,” says Steve, carefully setting Alpine aside before rising from the couch. Alpine lets out a displeased noise but doesn’t move to follow him.

Bucky assigns Steve the task of chopping a head of cabbage, some carrots, and some onions while he works on carving up the whole roast chicken he’d bought earlier in the week. He pulls on gloves to protect his prosthetic hand (the StarkTech engineer he talked to said that food shouldn’t affect it, but Bucky is still paranoid about having to clean grease out of the grooves), then starts throwing thigh meat and skins into boiling water to make a broth. Steve thankfully seems comfortable with a knife, though he does send a few smaller carrot pieces flying across the counter at first. Bucky whips out an arm to catch them, but Steve is faster. “Sorry,” says Steve, blushing and dumping the carrots into the pot. “These are trickier to work with than I expected.”

Bucky glances over as he disposes of his gloves. “Never chopped a carrot before?”

“Not in a long, long time,” Steve says, a strange tone to his voice. He turns to look at Bucky. “Do you cook a lot?”

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “Kind of have to, living out here. You could always stock up on frozen pre-made meals, but there’s no point in doing that when you can get fresh produce just around the corner.”

“Like in a farmers’ market?” asks Steve.

Bucky nods.

“I should try that,” says Steve. “A farmers’ market. I’ve seen signs in some of the towns I’ve passed through, but they’re not open on the days I’m there.”

“Well, ours is closed for the rest of the week because of the holidays, but if you’re still around next week, you can go and check it out.”

“I’d like that.”

Bucky turns and opens the fridge. “You want a drink? Sorry, I should have offered earlier. I’ve got…water, carbonated water, three different types of juices, and milk. No alcohol, sorry. I don’t really drink anymore, not since I got out of the army and –” He cuts himself off before he reveals that he’s missing a large chunk of time from his deployment, namely the part where he became a prisoner of war and lost his arm and his unit at some point, and that alcohol brings flashes of horrific memories that leave him shaking in the night. “Anyway. I could make something hot, too. Tea, coffee, and I’ve probably got some hot chocolate lying around somewhere.”

“Just water would be fine, thank you,” says Steve. His voice gets that strange tone again. “I was in the army, too.”

“Yeah, I figured that when I saw your boots,” Bucky quips. “Did you just get out?”

“You could say that,” says Steve stiffly.

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I—um—I was out of commission for a long time because of a, uh, medical reason, but I got called back in recently for a, uh, special ops mission. It went well and everything, but I, um, I’m taking an extended leave right now. Trying to—trying to catch up on all the things I missed while I was, um, gone.”

It kind of sounds like Bucky’s story. Maybe Steve was a POW, too. Bucky decides not to push it. He hates it when people try to get him to open up. “So you decided to, what, take a cross-country road trip with just you and your Harley?”

“Yeah,” says Steve, a corner of his mouth lifting. “I wanted to know how things had changed while I was gone. It turns out that the answer is a lot.”

“Well, I’m not sure a remote island town is the best place to achieve your goal,” says Bucky, “but we have extremely good wi-fi, so you can wiki away to your heart’s content.”

Steve laughs. “Oh, yes, the Internet. So helpful.”

“Only if you go to the right places,” Bucky says, shaking his head darkly. “There are a lot of terrible people on the Internet, and they often have the loudest voices.”

“Yeah, I noticed that,” Steve says with a twist of his mouth. “I guess some things never change.”

“Can’t complain about the cat videos, though,” Bucky says. “Al’s not a fan of the competition, but I could watch those forever.”

They eat the soup and bread in companionable silence as Alpine watches them from her favorite spot on the top cabinet. “This is great,” says Steve, practically inhaling his food. “It’s been so long since I had home-cooked food.”

“Where are you from, anyway?” asks Bucky, scooping up the last of his soup with a piece of bread.

“Um,” says Steve, glancing at Bucky warily, “Brooklyn. What about you?”

“Huh,” says Bucky, “I’m from there too. Well, I was born in Indiana, but my family moved to Brooklyn when I was about four, and I spent pretty much my whole life there till I started serving.”

“Are they—is your family still there?” asks Steve. His eyes linger on the laminated photo stuck to Bucky’s fridge, featuring Bucky with his parents and sister Becca at Bucky’s college graduation.

Bucky drops his eyes to his empty soup bowl. His left hand tightens against his knee. “No. They all got killed in an accident the summer after I finished college. It’s part of why I joined up, actually.”

“Oh,” says Steve with wide eyes, “I’m so sorry, Bucky, I didn’t mean to remind you of that. Please forgive me.”

Bucky stands up abruptly, bringing his empty bowl to the sink. “It’s okay. You didn’t know, and it was a long time ago.”

“My ma died when I was eighteen,” says Steve, his voice quiet. “Never really knew my dad—he died in the war before I was born. Ma was all I had. I still miss her every day, even though she died years ago now.” Steve ducks his head and looks down at the table. “I don’t know if that helps, but I wanted to let you know. You’re not alone.”

“Um,” Bucky says, clearing his throat. “Thanks.”

“Let me help you with the dishes,” says Steve, shooting up like someone has just lit a fire under his ass. Al startles from the top of the cabinet, jumping down onto the counter and then the floor.

“Uh, sure,” says Bucky. “I was just going to put them in the dishwasher?”

“Oh, right,” says Steve, stopping suddenly like a deer frozen in headlights. “Well. I can help you put everything away in the I—the, uh, fridge.”

An awkward silence falls as they clean up. When they’re done, Steve asks to use the bathroom, and Bucky shows him where to go, pointing out the bedroom on the way. Bucky then returns to the living room, pacing anxiously as he tries to work out what to do. He was planning to spend tonight curled up on the couch, reading and studiously avoiding any and all movies and shows related to the holidays. Now, however, he has a guest, and he feels obligated to entertain him. Steve might be interested in doing something related to Christmas, given the cheerful pattern of his socks and his mention of the Christmas tree. Maybe Bucky can just show Steve to the bedroom, lend him the tablet, and have him entertain himself somehow. That might be best for both of them. After their last conversation, the last thing Bucky wants to do is interact with another person.

Bucky’s setting up a guest account on the tablet when Steve returns. “Bucky,” says Steve, sounding like a disappointed parent. Bucky looks up. “There’s only one bedroom in this house.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Bucky, “that’s my room. But you can sleep in there tonight. I’ll bunk down on the couch.”

“I should take the couch,” says Steve, lifting his jaw and crossing his arms over his chest and straining his blue shirt over his pecs even more than before. “I’m the guest,” he adds as if that should be enough to convince Bucky.

“Um, yeah, you’re the guest, which is why you should take the bed,” says Bucky, forcing himself to look at Steve’s face and not his chest. Bucky stands and holds out the tablet. “Here. This has Netflix and YouTube on it, and it has an Internet browser. I figure you might want to watch some Christmas movies or something.”

Steve’s frown grows deeper. He takes the tablet, but he doesn’t look at it. “I, uh, thanks, Bucky. But I still think I ought to sleep on the couch. You’re already putting me up in your house—there’s no reason for me to take your bed, too.”

Bucky sighs. “It’s fine, Steve, I promise. I fall asleep on the couch half the time when I’m reading. Sometimes I can’t even fall asleep when I’m lying in the bed, so the couch works better for me anyway.”

“If you’re sure,” says Steve, looking doubtful. “I really—I really don’t want to inconvenience you any more than I already have.”

“I’m sure,” Bucky retorts, irritation leaking into his voice. “Anyway, I’m gonna—I’m just gonna read for a while. You can hang out in the bedroom and watch whatever you want on the tablet.”

“Oh,” says Steve, glancing at the tablet without a single iota of interest. “I—actually, I was wondering if I could join you in here and sketch a little. I won’t disturb your reading. It’s just – the fire is really nice.”

Bucky blinks. “Sure,” he says, “If you want.”

Steve’s face lights up. “Let me just go and put my bag away.”

Steve returns a few minutes later with a sketchbook tucked under one arm and a new pair of khakis on his legs. Bucky wonders if the man has ever heard of jeans, and then he has to spend a full minute forcing himself not to think of what Steve’s legs might look like in a pair of skinnies. If they’re as toned as his chest, then he’s practically one of Bucky’s fantasies come to life.

Bucky hastily throws a blanket over himself to cover his untimely erection and stretches out on the couch, cracking open _Foundation_ _and Empire_ as Steve settles into the recliner. After a few seconds of sitting with proper posture, Steve blows out a breath, pulls his long legs up to his chest, and balances his sketchbook against his knees like a little kid. It’s adorable, and it also gives Bucky a partial view of his ass. _Not the time!_ Bucky mentally shouts, trying to adjust his jeans. Fortunately, Alpine solves the problem by prowling in from the kitchen and jumping straight onto Bucky’s lap. Bucky winces and grunts, his erection wilting immediately as she sinks her claws in dangerously close to his crotch. “Ow, Al, watch it,” he mutters. Steve glances their way and smiles, then returns to his sketching.

The scratch of pencil against paper, the crackling of the fire, and the low purr of his cat against his belly lull Bucky into a half-doze that’s only broken when Steve softly clears his throat and stands. “It’s late, so I’m going to head to bed. Good night, and thank you again.”

Bucky quickly sits up, rubbing his eyes. “There’s a space heater and extra blankets in the bedroom closet you can use if it gets too cold. If you need anything else, just holler. I’m a light sleeper. Um, good night.”

“Thank you, Bucky, for everything. I’ll get out of your hair tomorrow morning as soon as I can.”

“Oh,” says Bucky, “Sure. Thanks.”

Steve nods, stiffly. Bucky blows out a breath and buries his face in a throw pillow, listening to the faint sounds coming from the bathroom as he reaches out and strokes along Al’s back. “Good night, little cat,” he whispers. “Don’t go running to Steve in the middle of the night, you hear?”

Al nudges her head against Bucky’s palm and curls up against his ribs. Bucky focuses on her comforting weight as he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

It’s the explosion that wakes him. Bucky flails, frantically trying to take cover, but his legs are tied down and so are his arms, and he can’t—he can’t move. He’s lying on a cold metal table and there’s light blinding his eyes and a buzzing saw getting closer and closer to his left shoulder, and he grits his teeth because if he starts screaming he’ll never stop—

“Bucky. Bucky! Bucky, wake up!”

Bucky falls off the couch with a yelp, frantically gasping for air as he tries to make sense of the world around him. There’s a bright light shining a few feet away, illuminating a sharp jawline and broad shoulders and shadowed, worried eyes. Something bats his nose and meows loudly, and then a soft, furry body nudges up against his hand. “Al,” he whispers, blinking. “Sorry, Al. Um. Steve?”

Steve nods. He’s kneeling a few feet away from Bucky, his hair in disarray as if he’s just rolled out of bed. He’s wearing a thin undershirt and the same khakis he was in last night. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky lies, pushing himself up with shaking hands. His heart is still pounding, and his skin is clammy with cooling sweat. He forces himself to take a deep breath and exhale slowly. “Sorry. Just a bad dream. Did I wake you up?”

Steve shakes his head. “I heard a big boom. I think the power’s gone out.”

“Oh,” says Bucky, “Damn. I guess the storm’s finally reached us. Wind must have knocked some branches into the power lines. What time is it?”

“Um—” Steve picks up the light, which Bucky realizes now is a cell phone. “3:08 AM.”

Bucky grimaces and runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. There’s a weather radio in the kitchen we can use to find out what’s going on. I’ll get that, then get the fire going for warmth. You’ll probably need to bunk in here for the rest of the night if you feel like it’s too cold in the bedroom.”

“Can I help?” asks Steve.

“Come help me collect some wood,” says Bucky, reluctantly throwing off the blankets. He shivers violently as his bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor. “It’s outside.”

Steve helpfully lights the way with his cell phone flashlight as Bucky rummages through the kitchen junk drawer until he finally finds the weather radio. He switches out the batteries, which are dead, and fiddles around until he hears the monotone NOAA voice describing the power outage for the area and how it hasn’t been fixed yet. There’s also a warning for possible snowfall. Bucky shoves his bare feet into his boots and pulls on his heavy down jacket, holding the light as Steve quickly gets his own boots and jacket on.

The wind blows freezing rain into their eyes as they trudge out to the little shed where Bucky’s woodpile sits. Bucky bends down, teeth chattering, and gathers a few logs in his arms, enough to last a few more hours until it gets light out. Then he stares as Steve sticks the cell phone in his teeth, squats, and heaves the rest of the pile upward. The pile is so tall that it nearly touches his chin. Bucky has a sudden flashback to the motorcycle-lifting incident from the day before. “Uh, wow,” he says, with a thin laugh, “I thought I was in shape, but you—you’re something else.”

Steve makes an embarrassed noise and quickly walks back toward the house, completely undeterred by the huge weight in his arms. Bucky doesn’t have the heart to tell him that they really don’t need the entire pile of wood yet. “Put the wood against the window – we don’t want it too close to the fire,” says Bucky, dumping his few logs on the top of the stack once they’re inside. “Hey, you think this counts as a full-size Christmas tree? I think there’s some pine in here.”

“Don’t see why not,” says Steve. “If it’s as tall as a Christmas tree, smells like a Christmas tree, and, um, burns like a Christmas tree, then I say it’s a Christmas tree.”

Bucky squints. “Did you just…reference that saying with the ducks?”

Steve gives him a sheepish smile. “Did it work?”

“I’m not sure,” says Bucky dryly. “But you tried. A-plus for effort. Gold star, and all that.”

Steve chuckles. “A gold star, huh?”

“Yeah, pal. What, you want a different color? Red, white, and blue to match your all-American looks and military service?”

Steve lets out a strangled noise. “No, no. Gold is just fine.”

Bucky shrugs. “Whatever you say. You know how to get a fire going?”

“It’s been a while, but I think I can manage it,” says Steve.

“Okay. I’ll be right back. Please don’t burn the house down.”

Bucky grabs a utility flashlight and hunts around the house for his old sleeping bag, which he finds stuffed into the back of the linen closet behind all the towels. He pulls it out, cursing a little at the towels trying to rain down on him, then grabs the blankets and pillows off the bed and heads back to the living room. Steve has gotten a roaring fire going, and he’s sitting in front of it with an extremely pleased expression. “What do you think?” he asks Bucky.

Bucky eyes the fire warily. “Should be fine as long as it doesn’t get any bigger,” he says. “At least we’ll be warm.”

Steve’s smile dims a little. “Sorry. The last time I made one of these, I was outdoors and trying to warm up six guys in the middle of winter. There wasn’t much risk of a fire hazard then.”

“It’ll die down,” says Bucky, tossing a blanket to Steve, who catches it with lightning-fast reflexes. Bucky holds up the sleeping bag. “You want the floor or the couch?”

“I’ll take the floor,” says Steve, “you know, as your _guest_.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “You know, as my guest, your comfort should come above mine.”

“I’m more comfortable on the floor,” Steve says, shaking out his blanket with a dramatic flourish.

Bucky rolls his eyes but tosses him the sleeping bag anyway. Alpine jumps for it and lands on Steve’s chest.

Steve drifts off pretty quickly after arranging his pillows and blankets to his satisfaction, but Bucky can’t sleep so soon after his nightmare. He watches Steve’s profile in the firelight, oddly shaped thanks to Alpine curled up on top of his head, and he wonders what Steve’s secret is. Bucky has, of course, heard about the rise of superheroes and “enhanced humans” like the Avengers, has even watched a little news footage during periods of boredom or insomnia, but it’s hard to believe that one would be wandering around the country soul-searching instead of going off to save the world.

Bucky’s eyes start drooping just as the fire starts to die down. He curses his messed-up brain and decides not to make himself anxious by checking the time. Instead, he closes his eyes, trying to match his breaths to Steve’s and relax each part of his body one by one like his therapist taught him back in New York. He concentrates on the new prosthetic, stretching and curling each finger, tapping each one against the couch as if he’s playing the piano, and gradually drifts off to sleep.

* * *

The smell of eggs and bacon wakes Bucky up. Bucky has a brief, disorienting flashback to his pre-military, post-accident life (it involved lots of nightclubs and partying), and he half-panics, wondering whose bed he woke up in and why they’re making him breakfast. Then Alpine bats his arm and butts her head into his chest, meowing loudly. “Morning, Al,” mumbles Bucky. He opens his eyes, then squeezes them shut almost immediately. The sun is out today, and it is blinding.

Bucky heaves a breath and pads out to the kitchen, where Steve is standing at the stove, humming under his breath and dishing out a delicious breakfast. He’s wearing a blue and white checked shirt and his clean khakis. It’s such an unfamiliar, domestic scene, but it’s one that this house has probably seen many times, and Bucky startles at the sudden burst of longing that shoots through him.

Bucky retreats to the bathroom, trying to regain control of his emotions. He pulls up his hair in a messy bun, splashes water on his face, and quickly brushes his teeth. He then pops into the bedroom—noting with surprise that Steve’s remade the bed with military precision—and then he changes into a fresh shirt and jeans, along with a burgundy sweater that passes as Christmas-like in most settings.

“Good morning,” Steve says brightly when Bucky returns to the kitchen. “I made breakfast. And coffee. I hope that was okay? The electric power’s still out, but the stove uses gas, so I made coffee on the stove and fried up some eggs, bacon, and toast. I didn’t let a lot of cold air out of the icebox, I mean, fridge, trying to get the food out.”

“This looks great,” Bucky says, hoisting himself into a chair on the breakfast bar. He accepts the cup of coffee and full plate that Steve passes to him. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. It was the least I could do after you fed me and let me stay.” A guilty look creeps over Steve’s face, and he bites his lip. “I also checked the weather. It snowed, then dropped down to freezing temperatures overnight, so the roads have iced over.”

Bucky chews slowly, processing the news. “You mean you’re stranded here?”

Steve flushes. “I can always leave. It’s almost ten o’clock now, and I’m sure I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

Bucky sends him an unimpressed look. “If you leave, where are you going to go? Nothing’s open. And how are you going to get there? You’ll freeze to death or slip off the road within an hour. No. Stay here, be warm, be safe.”

“If—if you’re sure,” says Steve, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know you only agreed to put me up for a night.”

“Steve,” says Bucky, taking a fortifying sip of coffee, “It’s fine. I’d rather have you here than send you off in life-threatening road conditions or weather conditions. And you aren’t bad company, either.”

Steve ducks his head and gives Bucky a small, shy smile. “Thanks.”

Bucky shrugs. “You should eat, too. Come on, take a seat.”  He pats the chair next to him, starting a little when his hand lands on Alpine’s back. “Al, off,” he sighs. She looks up at him without moving, ignoring all his shooing motions in favor of licking her front paws.

“It’s okay, I’ll eat standing,” says Steve. He takes a bite of eggs and works through the rest of the plate with brutal efficiency. Bucky wonders if he gets extra hungry as an “enhanced human” or if the fast eating is just a product of his time in the army. Maybe it’s both.

“Oh!” Steve sets his fork down and quickly wipes his mouth. “I’m sorry, I forgot to say. Merry Christmas.”

“You too,” says Bucky, taking another sip of coffee. He wonders if he should tell Steve that he grew up Jewish, then decides that he doesn’t have the energy to open that can of worms. Hanukkah ended last week, anyway. Bucky had spent the whole time forcefully ignoring the guilt that pooled in his gut. “Did you and your mom have any Christmas traditions when you were growing up?”

Steve nods. “We didn’t have a lot, but Ma always tried to make sure we ate a full Irish breakfast on Christmas morning. She’d save up for it all year. Said it was the one piece of home she could still hang onto.”

“So she came here from Ireland, then?”

Steve nods, pushing a scrap of bacon around on his plate. “Yeah. Met Dad and married him shortly after, and then she had me. She was a nurse. Hardest-working person I ever knew.” Steve’s face twists with grief for a moment. “Sorry. You know, you’re the first person who’s asked about her since I, um, kind of got back into the world? Everyone else just expects me to be...strong and perfect. No one ever really asks how I’m doing.”

“Don’t know about perfect, but you are inhumanly strong,” Bucky says, keeping his voice light. He can tell at once that he’s gone too far when Steve’s face shutters into blankness. “Ah, crap. Sorry, Steve. I just mean—”

Steve straightens his shoulders and sets his jaw, all at once becoming _bigger_ with his stance. “No, no,” he says, his voice gone deep and modulated like he’s about to give a speech. “I should’ve expected you to figure it out at some point.” He stiffly holds out a hand. “Steve Rogers. Captain America.”

“Uh,” says Bucky, gaping. This is not a conversation he was prepared to have in his life. Ever. Especially before coffee. Though, now that he thinks about it, the pieces are clicking together: the vintage clothes, the super-strength, the conscious omissions in his stories…Steve’s shoulders have started inching up to his ears, so Bucky awkwardly outstretches his right hand before Steve can shut down completely. “If we’re going to do this formally, then I’m James Barnes. Sergeant.”

Steve nods, shaking Bucky’s hand firmly. “Nice to meet you, Sergeant Barnes."

Bucky flinches minutely, a dark and ugly tendril of memory floating up in his brain. “Please don’t call me that. Just Bucky is fine.”

Steve drops Bucky’s hand, ducking his head apologetically. “Sorry, Bucky. Um—please don’t call me Captain. Just Steve.”

“Okay, Just Steve,” says Bucky. He briefly wonders if he should ask Steve where his shield is, then decides to let it drop. “So what do you want to do on this fine Christmas morning?”

“Well,” says Steve, looking up at Bucky from underneath his lashes—and damn it, Bucky should not find that so arousing, but he _does._ He mentally yells at his cock again and brings his focus back to Steve’s words: “....have a white Christmas, and it’d be nice to walk around the property. I didn’t get to see much of it last night.”

It takes Bucky a moment to realize Steve’s waiting for a response. “Uh, sure. I’ll show you the property. You're going to need to wear more than that, though.”

Steve follows Bucky to the bedroom, where Bucky digs out his old winter coat with a hood (it has a small tear on its sleeve courtesy of Alpine), thick wool socks, an old pair of boots suitable for snow, a wool sweater, a hat, waterproof gloves, and a scarf. “Come on, bundle up,” says Bucky, gesturing impatiently. “I refuse to be the one responsible for letting you die of pneumonia or something else that’s easily preventable.”

Steve huffs but begins to pull on the extra layers. “I’ve actually had pneumonia several times.”

“Let me guess,” says Bucky, “You got it by going out in the cold without the proper clothes.”

“Well, my lungs never quite worked right before the serum. I had asthma, which meant I already had a higher chance of getting pneumonia,” says Steve, and Bucky frowns guiltily, feeling like a total asshole. A hint of an old-time New York accent colors Steve’s tone as he continues, “But sometimes, well, a lot of times, I’d be out walking on the street and I’d get into fights, and my coat would get torn up to hell in some alleyway, or stolen by bullies, or basically rendered unusable in some way. Combine that with my asthma and my habit of getting tossed into dirty New York puddles by kids bigger and meaner than me, and I was basically a prime breeding ground for germs. It drove Ma crazy. She taught me pretty quick how to mend my coat and other clothing since I didn’t have a lot and it kept getting ruined.”

“That’s a good skill,” says Bucky. “I still don’t know how to sew properly. I just wear clothes even with holes in them, or eventually haul myself to the thrift shop to get a replacement.”

“I brought a kit with me,” says Steve, examining the tear in the coat sleeve. “I can at least patch this up before I leave.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Bucky checks the weather radio as Steve finishes getting dressed. The monotone voice announces that the temperature is still at or below freezing but that no more precipitation is expected for the day. Then he leads Steve out the back door and into the wild woods that make up his backyard.  He takes Steve down the path he’d cleared over the summer and fall, occasionally stopping to pick up a branch that fell during last night’s storm. Sunlight reflects off the sparkling snow dusting the surrounding trees and bushes, and there’s a hushed feeling to the air. The quiet is broken only by the cracking of ice underneath their boots and the occasional rustle from Alpine, who’s darted ahead of them in pursuit of something more interesting.

“It’s beautiful,” Steve says softly, pausing to examine a fallen trunk that had grown on top of another. A stone bench installed by the Painters sits a few feet away, covered with half-melted snow. Steve runs his gloved fingers along the edge of the bench. “Do you come out here often?”

Bucky nods. “I try to walk through at least once a day to check the property.” He gestures for Steve to follow him around the bend. “Come here, I think you’ll like this.”

Steve gasps softly as he takes in the clearing. On one end, a lattice arch stands tall and proud, covered with snow-dusted vines and glowing in the light of the high noon sun. The rest of the clearing is occupied by three rows of curved stone benches, rising upward like an amphitheater. A couple of strategically placed boulders mark the boundaries of the space and act as handholds for the seats.

“The Honeymoon Cabin wasn’t just used for honeymoons,” Bucky explains. “Sometimes people would also rent the space for weddings or small concerts. The Painters—the couple who lived here before me—used to have a summer party here every year for all the residents of the island, too.”

There's something distant in Steve’s gaze, like he’s remembering something from long ago. “What are you planning to do with it?”

Bucky shrugs. “I’m not sure. Now that the path is clear, maybe I’ll start renting it out again—just this space, not the house. Most of the time I just come out here to think.”

Alpine appears suddenly on the steps, meowing. “Al, come here,” says Bucky, clicking his tongue, but she twirls around Steve’s ankles instead, demanding attention. Steve sits down on the bottommost bench, petting Al, and Bucky sits next to him.

“There was,” Steve says in a rough voice, “We, um, we found a place like this. In the war, in Austria. One minute we were hacking our way through a forest and the next—it just appeared, like some kind of faerie court from one of Ma’s old stories. There were flowers laid all along the old arch, which was made of stone. Nearby, buried in the dirt, were some burnt photos. We could hardly make out what they were, but we were finally able to figure out that they were of two men. Two men getting married and kissing at that very arch. It was illegal back then, of course, but someone had—someone had left this memorial for them, it looked like. We buried the photos deep in a tin box so they could be protected, and then we left. We couldn’t bunk there. It was too open, but it also seemed sacrosanct somehow, like we’d be invading a holy space.”

Steve worries his lip, glancing cautiously at Bucky. “I said a prayer for them. I knew they’d probably been killed or worse, taken to the camps, so I sent up every prayer I could think of asking for God to help them find peace and strength. I never believed that anyone should go to hell or be punished for loving who they loved. I still don’t.” Steve stares at the ground quietly as he says, “I—well, I’d be a bit of a hypocrite if I did.”

Bucky has to take a moment to process the enormity of Steve’s confession and tamp down the ensuing panic that floods his veins. _Did Captain America just come out to me? What about the story about the war? Am I the first person he’s told about his sexuality? And that memory? What do I say —_ "I’m gay,” is what comes out of Bucky's mouth. “I like men. Um, yeah. So I’m—I’m glad you’re not a homophobic asshole. That’s—that’s great. Really great.”

Steve picks nervously at some leaves stuck to the hem of his pants. “I think I’m what they call—bi? Bisexual? I, uh, I like both men and women. I don’t know if there’s a different word for it, because sometimes people say that’s not a real thing. I don’t know. When I was growing up we just called people queer, but—some people say that that’s a slur these days.”

Bucky nearly sags with relief. This is a conversation he can handle; it's one he had with the kids down at the used bookstore too many times to count.  “You can define yourself however you want,” says Bucky. “Lots of people self-identify as queer. It’s more of an umbrella term but, um, its most basic definition is ‘not straight.’ If you want to identify as bisexual, you can do that. If you want to identify as gay, or straight, or other, that’s up to you, too. And—and it’s your own business who you tell. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

The tension leaches out of Steve’s shoulders. “Thank you, Bucky.”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, and he has a flash of inspiration. On any other day, he might find the idea silly, but the image Steve had conjured of the Austrian arch has struck a chord within Bucky. “Hey, do you want to, um, you wanna say a prayer for those two men here? To honor their memory? I mean—since the arch is similar, you know? Maybe the prayers will reach them, like some kind of parallel universe thing.”

When Steve doesn’t answer, looking at Bucky with faint confusion, Bucky rambles, “Sorry, I read way too much sci-fi. I just thought—I don’t know what religion you practice, but um—I still remember some of the Hebrew prayers I learned as a kid. One of 'em was, it was for mourning. I could...I could recite that one, you know, if you think it’s okay. I don’t really—I haven’t really been to temple or, um, done anything since my parents died, but I—I think this might be nice.”

Steve clears his throat and says hoarsely, “I think it’s really nice, Bucky. I’d really like that, I, um, I grew up Catholic, and I don’t really practice anymore, either, but I—I’d still like to do it.”

“Okay.” Bucky stands and walks to the arch, and Steve follows more slowly. Al watches them curiously from the stone steps. “Do you wanna—we can do it silently, or say them out loud?”

“Out loud, I think.”

“Okay. Do you want some privacy?”

“No,” says Steve, kneeling in the dirt and clasping his hands together. “Please stay.”

Bucky kneels next to Steve out of respect, listening to Steve murmur a quiet prayer under his breath. He can’t make out the words exactly, but he thinks part of it is in Latin. Steve takes a deep breath and lets it out, then looks at Bucky with red-rimmed eyes. “Okay. Your turn?”

Bucky nods. “We, um, we would usually stand for prayers.”

Steve brushes the dirt off his pants and rises. Bucky closes his eyes, feeling oddly exposed, and tries to imagine himself in temple again that day, standing between his parents and Becca, feeling the weight of the prayer in that holy space. He opens his mouth and nervously starts to recite the Mourners’ Kaddish. The words flow off his tongue more easily than he expects, and when he’s done, he feels – settled, for a brief moment. Peaceful.

Steve’s wiping away tears when Bucky opens his eyes. Bucky doesn’t know what to say, so he hesitantly pats Steve’s shoulder with his right hand. Steve gives him a grateful smile.

“You’re a good man,” says Steve, all Captain America-like conviction for a moment. “Thank you.”

Bucky doesn’t how to respond to that, so he stays silent. He can think of a million rebuttals to Steve’s statement—he’s antisocial, he’s generally grumpy, he only really works to help himself and Alpine. More than that, he killed people in the war, civilians who were in the way of a target, and he didn’t always feel bad about it. And although he doesn’t know what happened during his captivity, the look on the officers’ faces when he woke up in the hospital had told him that he had done something really awful. Bucky suspects that he actually had something to do with his unit disappearing off the face of the planet, and that the only reason he got honorably discharged was because he couldn't remember a thing about it.

He sits on the steps with Steve in contemplative silence until the sun shifts position and it starts to get colder. Bucky stands, holding out his right hand. Steve takes it, dislodging a sleeping Alpine from his lap. The cat glares, stretches, and then disappears into the woods with her head held high.

“Want to go inside?” asks Bucky.

“Yeah,” says Steve. He startles a little when he realizes he’s still holding Bucky’s hand, then drops it like a hot potato, blushing. “I—sorry.”

Bucky has a brief, totally inappropriate fantasy where he imagines seeing that blush all the way down Steve’s body. Then he snaps out of it and tells his cock to stop causing trouble.

The power’s still not on by the time they get back to the house. Steve makes another pot of coffee on the stove so that they have something warm to drink, and Bucky kindles another fire, stoking it till the chill in his bones seeps away. He can deal with winter just fine most days, especially when it’s light out, but he doesn’t like being cold for too long. It calls up half-formed memories of metal tables, sharp tools, freezing cells that he prefers not to linger on.

“Bucky, are you hungry?” calls Steve from the kitchen.

“Are you?” Bucky calls back.

“Um,” says Steve, and he comes into the living room, scratching the back of his neck and looking embarrassed. “Sorry. Since the serum, my metabolism works faster. I usually eat something every three hours or so. I was thinking of cooking us lunch. I’ve got some protein bars in my bag, though, so I can just grab one of those.”

“Might as well use up whatever’s in the fridge since the power’s out,” says Bucky, stepping away from the fire. He goes to the kitchen and carefully eases open the fridge door, taking out the rest of his roast chicken. “Chicken again?”

“All right,” says Steve. “Let me do it. You should go warm up and relax.”

“Thanks,” says Bucky, curling his hands around his coffee mug. Something warm flutters in his chest. He sips his coffee, then tries to distract himself by reading the parts of _Foundation and Empire_ that he hadn’t processed last night when he dozed off, but his eyes keep wandering to Steve puttering around in the kitchen, humming cheerfully as he roots through the kitchen cabinets gathering the ingredients he wants. Bucky’s heart aches a little as he realizes that he could get used to being taken care of by another person.

“You have potatoes?” Steve calls, suddenly out of sight.

“Um, yeah, check the big bottom drawer left of the stove,” Bucky answers.

There’s the sound of several drawers opening and closing, then Steve makes a triumphant noise. “Found ’em!”

Bucky snorts. He can’t help it.

Steve comes back into the living room forty-five minutes later, his face glowing red from the heat of the stove. “I think I did all right,” he says with a happy smile. “It’s gotta simmer for a while, then it’ll be ready.”

“What’d you make?” Bucky asks, stretching out along the couch.

“Irish chicken and potato soup,” says Steve. “I tried to remember Ma’s old recipe. We had most of the ingredients, we were just missing the thyme.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows at the use of the word “we,” but decides not to point it out.

“I almost forgot!” Steve runs into the kitchen, then returns with a plate of buttered toast stacked up to his chin. “Something to tide us over while we wait.”

“Did you make this on the stove?” Bucky asks, a pleased noise escaping his throat as he sinks his teeth into the delicious, buttery warmth.

Steve nods. “Just like the toast this morning.”

They demolish the stack of toast in about ten minutes. Steve puts the plate in the dishwasher, checks on the soup—“another half hour,” he announces—and then hesitantly perches on the end of the couch with his sketchbook. “Mind if I join you?” he asks.

Bucky nods, pulling his feet up so that Steve has room to sit. “Go ahead.”

Bucky tries to concentrate on his book. By all rights, this whole scenario shouldn’t be any different than last night’s, which was cozy and peaceful and had him half-asleep within an hour. The problem is, he keeps catching Steve glance at him out of the corner of his eye. Bucky lets the charade go on for about five minutes before his patience wears thin.

“Is there something wrong with my face?” asks Bucky.

Steve slams the sketchbook closed so fast that Bucky can hear the air _whoosh_ between the pages. “Um, no! No. Nothing at all.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at Steve, then looks at the sketchbook suspiciously. “Are you…drawing me?” he asks slowly.

Steve turns a deep red and twists his pencil his fingers nervously. “I’m sorry. I can stop.”

“Um,” says Bucky, suddenly self-conscious. He knows he’s relatively good-looking, but he’s a far cry from a model. “I mean. I guess it’s okay? Do you want me to, um, pose?”

“No,” says Steve, “it’s all right. I’ll—I’ll stop. I’d better go check the, uh, the food.” He shoots up from the couch like a rocket, obviously meaning to flee to the kitchen, but in his haste, he drops the sketchbook on the floor. It falls open to the drawing Steve must have been working on a few minutes ago: a beautifully rendered portrait of Bucky, brow furrowed with concentration, with a half-outlined book visible just underneath his chin.

Steve looks mortified. “I’m sorry, Bucky, I can—you can have it, you can burn it if you want. I should have asked before drawing you.”

“Steve, no, wait,” says Bucky, squatting down and peering more closely at his pencil-outlined face. There’s obvious care in the strokes, and Steve’s done an excellent job capturing the shape of his jawline and the curve of his nose. He hovers a hand over the sketchbook, looking up at Steve for permission. “This is really good. Can I see the rest?”

“Um,” says Steve, and he kneels on the floor. Bucky’s brain shorts out for a minute at the sight. Steve takes the sketchbook and flips it to the previous page, which features Bucky and Alpine laying on the couch, asleep. Steve chews his lip. “That’s from last night. Is that okay?”

“Okay? It’s amazing, Steve,” says Bucky, gingerly running a finger along the edge of the paper. The fluttering warmth in his chest expands, filling his whole body with a strange yearning. “I didn’t know you were an artist. Show me more?”

Steve flips to the front of the sketchbook and turns the pages slowly, revealing a true-to-life sketch of Stark Tower standing tall amongst the Manhattan skyline (“That’s before Loki destroyed it,” Steve points out), a rough sketch of glaring woman with striking features (“Natasha,” says Steve in a dark, loaded tone), a man with frizzy hair, glasses, and a sheepish smile (“Dr. Banner—I hope he’s okay”), a messy but still recognizable sketch of Tony Stark (“he wouldn’t stop moving or talking”, Steve says, with a roll of his eyes), an extremely muscular man wearing a cape and holding a giant hammer (“that’s Thor”), and Steve’s Harley (“that was back when she was brand new”).

Following those are a series of drawings of kitschy diners, half-formed road signs, and rolling landscapes marking Steve’s travels across the country. “S.H.I.E.L.D.  gave me a packet of pamphlets and printouts on the best spots to visit in America, so I followed those for a while, but I eventually went off book and started stopping in the nearest town that looked interesting,” Steve says. “The Honeymoon Cabin was actually the first S.H.I.E.L.D.-suggested place I tried to look for in about three months."

“What changed?”

Steve shrugs. “I hadn’t realized it was Christmas till I got into town and saw all the decorations everywhere. I thought it might be nice to stop and breathe for a few days before moving on.”

“And now you’re here,” says Bucky. “So you got what you wanted after all.”

Steve’s cheeks, which had been fading to their normal color, turn red again. “I got a lot more than that. I got to meet you.”

“And Al,” Bucky mumbles in a half-hearted attempt at deflection. “Don’t forget her.”

“I got to meet you and Al,” Steve concedes with a small smile. He catches Bucky’s gaze and holds it for a moment, eyes searching Bucky’s face as if he’s trying to read Bucky’s thoughts. His eyes drop down briefly to Bucky’s lips, and Bucky’s breath catches in his throat. Steve says, “I mean it, Bucky. Meeting you is a better Christmas gift than I could ever have imagined.”

Bucky blushes down all the way down to his toes. “You use that line on every guy you meet?”

“No, just you,” Steve says, completely sincere. He grins suddenly and holds out a hand. “Hey, you wanna help me check on the soup? I’ll help you up.”

It’s a cheesy attempt, but Bucky takes Steve’s hand anyway as he pushes himself off the floor. Steve gently runs his thumb along Bucky’s knuckles—the touch sends a jolt of lust straight to Bucky’s cock—and then leads Bucky into the kitchen, where the soup is simmering merrily on the stove. Steve keeps a hold of Bucky’s hand and carefully dips a spoon into the pot with the other, holding it out with a hopeful expression that mostly succeeds in covering his nerves. “Want to taste?”

Bucky hides a grin and guides the spoon to his mouth with his left hand. Flavor explodes on his tongue, and his eyes widen with pleasure. “That’s good!”

Steve’s face lights up. He tastes a spoonful himself, flicking his tongue along his lips to catch the broth that escaping the spoon. Bucky’s cock perks up even more.

“Mm, that’s ready,” says Steve, peering into the pot. “Tastes just like Ma’s. Grab me some bowls, will you? I don’t know where you keep them.”

Bucky hastily turns and opens the cabinet, taking the opportunity to adjust himself discreetly.

They eat sitting side by side at the counter, no Alpine to occupy any of the seats this time. The soup is hearty and filling, and it warms Bucky through and through, adding to the little ball of warmth in his chest. A pleased smile crosses Steve’s face when Bucky gets seconds. Steve takes a total of three helpings, presumably to feed his super-soldier metabolism.

After lunch, they clear the table together, put the leftovers away, and then go to the living room and re-kindle the dying fire. Bucky sprawls out onto the couch, groaning a little at his full belly. Steve perches at the end, running a hand through his hair nervously. “Bucky,” he says as if he’s about to give a briefing, Steve’s cheeks redden, and he says, “I’d like to kiss you. But I don’t want you to feel obligated to return my affections just because I’m Captain America. Or because I’m staying in your house. It wouldn't be right to take advantage of you.”

Bucky frowns and sits up, his heart hammering. Steve stiffens, obviously bracing himself for rejection, and Bucky quickly covers Steve’s hand with his own. “Hey, Steve. It’s okay. I’d—I’d really like it if you kissed me. Let’s just lay out some ground rules first, okay?”

“Okay,” says Steve, his eyes lighting with hope.  “Yeah. Rules.”

Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand. “Okay. So first of all, I’ll tell you if you do something I don’t like, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And you’ll stop when I ask you to.”

Steve nods solemnly. “Of course.”

“You gotta promise me the same. I do anything you don’t like, you say ‘stop’ and I’ll stop. You say ‘no’ and I’ll stop. Clear?”

“Clear,” says Steve, swallowing and nodding.

Bucky studies him for a moment. “Is there anything you don’t want to do? Something that’s a hard no for you?”

Steve looks down, then looks back up. “I don’t like—um—I don’t like being called Captain, or Captain America. And I—I don’t feel comfortable, uh, spanking people. Or – or tying them up and hurting them.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “Whoa, um. Okay.  Well, I don’t think we’re at the stage where we can do kinky stuff to each other. I mean, I don’t even have any stuff like that here, so it’s a moot point, but—anyway—as to your other request, um, totally doable. I won’t call you Captain. I don’t like being called Sergeant, or Sarge, or Barnes. And I, I don’t like having my shirt off. I mean, you can touch under there, I just—I just don’t like people seeing it ever since, um, I got discharged.”

Steve nods. “Noted. I won’t take your shirt off. I’ll call you Bucky.”

“And I’ll call you Steve.” Bucky grins, running a thumb along Steve’s wrist. “Now, is there anything you _do_ want to do?”

Steve licks his lips. “Kiss you,” he says, looking Bucky straight in the eye. “Can I?”

Bucky leans forward, holding Steve’s gaze. “Go ahead.”

Steve cups the back of Bucky’s head and presses his mouth gently against Bucky’s. He’s hesitant, a little clumsy at first; then Bucky opens his mouth, letting him in, and Steve moans, flicking his tongue along Bucky’s bottom lip like he’s somehow keyed in directly to Bucky’s desires. Bucky whimpers and nips at Steve’s lips, gripping Steve’s shoulder with his right hand. Steve huffs a laugh into Bucky’s mouth and drops one hand to Bucky’s waist, pulling him closer with a firm grip. Bucky ends up straddling Steve’s waist, pressing his prosthetic hand against the couch to support himself and curling his flesh arm around Steve’s back. His cock presses against his thigh, and he can see the outline of Steve’s through the thick khakis.

They kiss for a long while, just like that, breathing each other’s air and occasionally whispering apologies as when their noses against each other. Bucky traces the line of Steve’s jaw, and Steve’s thumb brushes against Bucky’s cheekbone, stroking it over and over. Then Steve breaks away, panting, and says, “Do you want to get more comfortable?”

Bucky nods. He stretches lengthwise along the couch and turns on his side, and Steve does the same so that they’re face-to-face. It’s a tight fit, and their bodies press against one another from head to toe. Bucky looks into Steve’s eyes and slowly rolls his hips so that his erection brushes against Steve’s through the cloth of their pants, and Steve’s hand spasms on Bucky’s back as he lets out a strangled noise. “Bucky,” he groans.

Bucky grins. He lowers his head and noses his way into the crook of Steve’s neck, placing a gentle kiss behind Steve’s ear. Steve gasps, high, breathy noises escaping him as Bucky pulls Steve’s shirt collar aside and trails a line of kisses underneath his jaw, down his neck, and on his collarbone. “You wanna take these off?” Bucky whispers, running his flesh hand underneath Steve’s shirt and feeling along the hard planes of his chest, the softer skin of his abs through his undershirt. Steve jerks his head in a nod and reaches up to start unbuttoning the shirt. Bucky helpfully unbuttons the cuffs, then sticks two fingers underneath Steve’s undershirt, circling lightly around Steve’s navel. “H-hold on, Buck, hold on a minute,” Steve orders. He sits up hastily and discards the button-up on the floor, then pulls the undershirt off, revealing an expanse of glorious, golden skin.

Bucky’s mouth waters. He takes a moment to simply _look_. Steve squirms underneath the scrutiny, his blush traveling slowly down his body. “See something you like?”

“Yes,” says Bucky, lifting his gaze to meet Steve’s. Bucky rises from the couch, and Steve’s brow furrows a little. Bucky pats the couch. “Lie down? I’ll get on top of you.”

Steve hastily complies, his breath quickening as Bucky straddles his waist again. Their erections brush against each other through their pants as Bucky leans forward and gently licks Steve’s nipple. Steve lets out a strangled moan, his hand tightening into a fist against the couch as Bucky kisses and licks around the nipple, teasing and occasionally flicking the nipple with his tongue. Bucky lets Steve catch his breath for a moment, then lavishes the same attention on the other nipple. Steve’s fists open and close convulsively, and Bucky can feel Steve’s erection growing against his thigh. He pauses to take a breath, then drops down to his elbows and kisses Steve softly.

Steve kisses him back, then traces long fingers along the curve of Bucky’s spine. He gently massages the back of Bucky’s neck, playing with the strands of hair there, and Bucky sighs, loosening his stance and dropping his head against Steve’s shoulder. Steve curls an arm around Bucky’s waist, gently flipping him onto his side, then reaches underneath Bucky’s shirt palms Bucky’s right pec. Bucky’s cock jumps as Steve curls his fingers and brushes his thumb against Bucky’s nipple. “Is that good?” asks Steve, studying Bucky’s face.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes.

Steve kisses Bucky and trails his fingers along Bucky’s chest, gently brushing Bucky’s left nipple before moving his hand to brush lightly underneath Bucky’s ribs. Bucky’s breath hitches. “Ticklish?” asks Steve, smiling.

“A little,” says Bucky.

Steve hums and moves his hand downward, tracing the faint outline of Bucky’s ab muscles before cautiously tracing under Bucky’s waistband. “Can I?”

“Yeah,” says Bucky hoarsely, “Please.” He reaches for Steve’s belt and pauses, looking up at Steve. “You, too?”

“Yes,” says Steve. His eyes are dark now, and he’s got a full body flush. “Please.”

Bucky makes quick work of Steve’s belt and zipper, while Steve pops each button of Bucky’s fly with agonizing slowness. Bucky scowls and raises himself up on one elbow to wriggle out of his jeans, pulling off his briefs and socks for good measure. Steve chokes a little and hastily kicks off his own pants and socks. His long, uncut cock springs free as he pulls down his briefs.

Bucky’s brain stalls for half a second as he takes in the gorgeous palette laid out before him. He watches Steve’s face as he reaches out his flesh hand and curls it around Steve’s cock. Steve inhales sharply, and his eyes flutter closed. “Okay?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. “Yeah, Bucky.”

Steve trembles minutely, gripping Bucky’s left arm with one hand as Bucky slowly strokes his cock. “Kiss me?” Steve asks. Bucky complies, exploring Steve’s mouth with his tongue as he gradually increases the rhythm of his strokes. Steve tenses underneath him, his body winding tighter and tighter underneath Bucky’s until he suddenly wrenches his face away. “Wait, Bucky, stop. Stop.”

Bucky lets go of Steve’s cock at once and leans back. “What’s wrong?”

“I just,” says Steve, panting, “this is going to be over too soon if you keep doing that. And you—I haven’t done anything for you yet.”

Bucky hasn’t been feeling neglected in the slightest—watching Steve get closer to the edge has been plenty arousing—but he props himself up on his left elbow and asks, “What would you like to do?”

“I,” says Steve, swallowing. There’s the barest hint of uncertainty on his face. “I’d like to—finger you. If that’s okay.”

Bucky grunts, his cock jumping at the mental image. “That’s more than okay, Steve,” he says, “Let me just—I’ll get some lube and clean up, okay? It’s been a while. You should wash your hands, too.”

“Okay,” says Steve. There’s a faint line between his eyes, like he’s still afraid Bucky will say no.

Bucky kisses him to smooth it out, then rises and hurries towards the bedroom, wincing as his soles hit the cold floorboards. He rummages around the nightstand until he finds the bottle of lube, rubbing it between his hands in a futile effort to warm it up. At least it’s not frozen. Then he makes a quick stop to the bathroom, turning on the bath and rinsing between his cheeks as much as he can, before he returns to the living room.

Steve is sitting on the couch when Bucky gets back, staring into the fire with a furrowed brow. His cock is only at half-mast. “Hey,” says Bucky, “what is it?”

“Just thinking too hard,” says Steve, his lips quirking in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You still want to—?”

“If you do,” says Bucky. He sets the lube down on the end table next to the miniature Christmas tree, then sits down next to Steve, pulling him into a kiss, and the tension slowly drains from Steve’s body. “Come on, let’s get comfortable,” Bucky suggests. They return to their previous position, with Steve lying on the couch and Bucky curled up at his side, and trade kisses for a while. Bucky’s hands roam all over Steve’s torso, and he follows the path of his hands with his tongue. It’s not long before Steve is panting again, twitching at every new lick and nip Bucky’s mouth gives to his skin. Bucky slowly, cautiously moves downward, tracing along Steve’s hips, and then presses a kiss to the top of Steve’s cock, which is shining with precome.

Steve groans and shudders. He guides Bucky back up and kisses him roughly, messily, then flips their position so that Bucky’s the one lying on the couch. Bucky gasps as Steve nips at his neck, his collarbones, the space under his jaw, giving Bucky the same treatment that Bucky had given to him earlier. Steve cups one of Bucky’s pecs, then gently twists Bucky’s nipple, and he quickly follows suit with the other; Bucky keens, scrabbling at the couch, as Steve wraps his long fingers around Bucky’s cock, strokes once, and bends his head to take Bucky’s cock all the way down to the root.

“Steve,” Bucky whimpers, his nerve endings sparking with the sudden onslaught of stimulation. Steve hums and pulls off Bucky’s cock, gently stroking Bucky’s sac before he wraps his index finger and thumb around the base of Bucky’s cock and takes the head of Bucky’s cock in his mouth, licking and sucking like he can’t get enough. “Steve,” Bucky tries again, patting blindly at Steve’s head and accidentally hitting him with the prosthetic, “Stop, I’m gonna—”

Steve pulls off. His lips are red and swollen, and Bucky stares at them dazedly as Steve takes a deep, trembling breath, trying to regain control. “Sorry,” says Steve, looking worried, looking dazed himself, “Was that too much? Too fast?”

“Just—just give me a minute,” says Bucky, taking a deep breath of his own. He runs through a quick meditation exercise, relaxing each of his muscles one by one.  He reaches blindly for the lube, nearly scraping the skin of his hand on the fake miniature Christmas tree, and holds out the bottle to Steve. “Can you—?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, his voice hoarse. “Yeah, of course.” He pops the cap open and drizzles lube onto his fingers. Bucky opens his legs wide and folds his knees up to his chest, focusing on staying loose and relaxed. The couch dips a little as Steve gets between Bucky’s legs. “How do you want to, um, do this?” asks Steve.

“Just—one finger, and go slow,” says Bucky. “And keep touching me and kissing me.”

“Okay,” says Steve. He leans over and kisses Bucky sweetly,  tracing around the rim of Bucky’s hole with a slippery finger before gently pressing at the entrance. Bucky grunts and takes a deep breath, getting used to the intrusion, and then says, “Okay. More.”

Steve goes slowly as promised, stopping every few seconds under Bucky’s direction, distracting him with tender kisses and harder nips on his lips, his neck, his chest, his navel until Bucky’s relaxed enough to let Steve’s entire index finger in. “Good?” he asks.

“Hm,” Bucky responds, his eyes half-lidded, his body lax. “Yeah.”

Steve smiles and crooks his finger, obviously searching for the prostate. He finds it a few seconds later. Bucky moans loudly. “There,” he breathes. “Again.”

Steve complies, flicking his finger against the spot back and forth, eliciting half-choked gasps from Bucky. His other hand, which has been resting on Bucky’s hip, comes around to grasp Bucky’s cock and stroke it in time with the prostate massage. Bucky’s back arches involuntarily, and he tingles from head to toe as Steve ramps it up. It’s not long before he feels himself reaching the edge. “S-Steve,” he manages to choke out, “Pl-pl—”

“Yeah, Bucky, yeah,” says Steve, breathless himself. There’s a slick, warm touch against Bucky’s cock, suddenly, and Bucky opens his eyes to see that Steve’s wrapped a hand around both their cocks and is stroking them together. It sends Bucky’s brain into overload, and he comes with a shout, stars exploding behind his eyes as he rides out his orgasm. Distantly, he feels Steve jerk against him, chasing his own orgasm and groaning, long and loud, before collapsing against the couch.

Bucky curls up against Steve’s chest, enjoying the afterglow until the tacky cum and cooling sweat begins to irritate him. “We should shower,” he mumbles, shivering. “Also, I’m cold.”

Steve grunts and pulls Bucky closer with the arm he’s got wrapped around Bucky’s waist. “Stay close to me. I’m warm.”

Bucky huffs. “Yeah, you are, but you’re also covered with come, and so am I. I’m going to shower.”

Steve grumbles but releases his hold. Bucky stands in front of the fire for half a second, then all but runs to the bathroom, taking refuge from the freezing floor on the bathroom mat. He turns on the shower, lets the mirror steam up, then strips his shirt off and steps into the tub. He uses his right hand to quickly scrub his hair and body. The StarkTech arm is waterproof, thankfully, so he doesn’t have to worry about getting it wet, but his hair caught in the plates of the arm once and it’s not an experience he ever wants to repeat. After he dries off, he pulls on his warmest sweatpants, fuzzy socks, slippers, and an undershirt followed by his warmest wool sweater. He figures it doesn’t matter what he wears at this point. Steve’s already seen him naked.

When Bucky pokes his head out the bedroom door, he sees Steve coming down the hall, still in all his naked glory. Alpine’s trotting behind him.  “Al just came back,” Steve says. “I told her she wouldn’t like the bathroom, but she didn’t listen.”

Bucky laughs. “It’s okay. She’ll run off once she notices the shower is running. Turn the knob up to get the water going, go left to get it hotter, go right to make it colder. You can take your time—the shower’s connected to its own hot water heater. Oh, and make sure to let the cat out before you shut the door.”

“Thanks.” Steve smiles and steps inside the bathroom.

Bucky leaves him to it and returns to the living room. He runs the lube and the dirty clothes back to the drawer and laundry hamper in the bedroom, and then he makes a second trip to put away the sleeping bag, which Steve had placed in front of the giant log pile. Bucky stokes the fire, settles onto the couch, and retrieves his book. Alpine pads in and jumps onto his belly, purring lazily and kneading as Bucky reads and strokes her head.

Steve returns in a green and white checkered shirt, a pair of briefs, and red and white patterned socks. Bucky raises his eyebrows at his state of dress, and Steve flushes, looking embarrassed as he picks up his discarded khakis and belt from the floor. "Left these here,” he mumbles, pushing his hair out his face when it flops over his forehead. He pulls on the pants, then smiles as he takes in Bucky’s new outfit. “You look comfortable.”

“I _am_ comfortable,” Bucky says, wiggling his toes in his socks. “Want to join me?”

“Just a minute,” says Steve. He disappears for a minute, then comes back with a sewing kit in one hand and Bucky’s old winter coat in the other. He sits down on the other end of the couch, smiling when Bucky presses his socked feet under Steve’s firm thigh. Steve glancing up at Bucky with open fondness before he goes back to patching the hole in the coat sleeve. Bucky basks in the warm contentment filling the room. He gives a thumbs-up of approval when Steve shows him the mended sleeve, then watches Steve’s bent head for a while as the man works on a sketch.

“I’m working on the same one from before,” Steve says, glancing at Bucky quickly before putting his pencil to the page. “Your portrait. I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s fine, Steve. You can draw me all you like.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Draw me like one your French girls.”

“I understood that reference,” says Steve with a grin.

The power finally returns just as the sun starts to set. Both Steve and Bucky wince as the fridge turns itself back on with a loud _thunk_. Clicks and buzzes echo around the house as various appliances and devices get a sudden jolt of charge. Bucky keeps his breathing steady, riding out the faint wave of panic threatening to overcome him by burying his right hand into Alpine’s fur.

“Buck? You all right?” Steve grasps Bucky’s left hand, sending a frisson of bizarre sensation up to Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky jerks, and Steve drops his hand. Alpine meows and darts off Bucky’s stomach, settling onto the recliner instead. “Sorry,” says Steve.

“No, it’s not you—it's just the arm,” says Bucky.

“Oh,” says Steve, his mouth turning down in a guilty frown, “Did I hurt you earlier?”

“No, nothing like that,” says Bucky. “It, um. It’s a prosthetic.” Bucky swallows nervously. He waits for the inevitable horror or fascination on Steve’s face, or worse, for Steve to insist that Bucky "prove it” by showing him where it attaches, but Steve surprises him.

“Buck,” says Steve carefully, grasping Bucky’s left hand. “There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m not judging you for it. I don’t see you any differently.”

Bucky laughs hoarsely. “I, um. I guess I was expecting—people get weird about it. I mean, I’m still weird about it. I don’t like looking at my shoulder in the mirror most of the time unless I have to.” He waits for Steve to give him some cheesy platitude about how it was meant to be, or tell him he’s so lucky to benefit from advanced tech, or to thank him for his service like the well-meaning people in town do, but Steve does none of those things, just keeps holding Bucky’s hand, watching and listening.

“I don’t even really remember how I lost the arm,” Bucky admits. “I was captured—my unit was captured—and I sometimes get flashes about what happened during that time, but never the whole story. I guess I got rescued at some point. I woke up in the hospital, drugged to the gills, and the brass tried to question me about what happened, but it was like someone had taken my mind and wiped it. They didn’t want to let me go, but they really didn’t have any right to keep me, either.”

Bucky tugs his hand out of Steve’s grasp and holds out his arm, touching each finger to his palm and shivering a little at the sensitivity. “This arm I got from Stark Industries. They were recruiting for an experimental prosthetics program for vets, and I happened to be in a New York hospital ‘cause of my old home address in Brooklyn, so it was easy for the company to send a tech out to meet me. I think Tony Stark came actually came by a couple times.” Bucky glances at Steve. “You know him, right? It didn’t click till just now.”

Steve nods. “We worked together during the battle of Manhattan. We don’t keep in touch that much. He’s…” Steve worries his lip between his teeth. “He can be a handful.”

“I’m sure,” says Bucky. He doesn’t remember much of Tony Stark beyond a lot of prodding at Bucky’s shoulder that kept making Bucky flash back to his captivity.

Steve leans forward to kiss him, soft and slow, and runs his palms up and down Bucky’s arms, one flesh, one synthetic. Bucky twitches a little bit, trying to process the sensation. “Is this okay?” asks Steve.

Bucky nods. “Yeah,” he sighs into Steve’s mouth. “Still feels a little weird, especially with finer touches.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Bucky shrugs.

Steve seems to take that as a no. He lets go of Bucky’s hand and shifts until he’s lying at an angle, placing his head on Bucky’s chest and wrapping one arm around Bucky’s waist. “All right?”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, tentatively petting Steve’s head with his right hand and running his fingers through the blonde strands. Steve makes a pleased noise, leaning into the touch like a cat. Bucky slips his fingers underneath Steve’s collar, then presses against the knot of tension at the back of his neck, rubbing in small circles.

Steve groans softly. “Feels good, Buck,” he mumbles. Bucky presses the heel of his hand against Steve’s left shoulder, and Steve melts against him, relaxing his grip on Bucky’s waist with a long exhale. Bucky spends a few minutes working out the knots there, then moves onto the other shoulder.  He doesn’t have enough of an angle to go further, so he brings his arm back up and strokes the short, fuzzy hair at the back of Steve’s neck. Steve lets out a deep, contented sigh.

They cuddle in front of the fire for a while until Steve’s stomach starts making loud, unhappy noises. Steve makes a face and reluctantly untangles himself. There’s a red mark on his cheek from where he pressed his face against Bucky’s sweater. “I’ll go heat up the leftover soup,” he says, rubbing his eyes.

Bucky follows him to the kitchen and refills Alpine’s food and water. The cat appears like a ghost and goes straight for the food, ignoring Bucky completely. Bucky shakes his head and joins Steve at the breakfast bar. He eats slowly, still full from lunch, but Steve downs the remaining three bowls’ worth of soup with gusto. “I guess I was hungrier than I thought,” he says, sheepishly glancing at Bucky. “Sorry.”

Bucky shrugs. “If I’m not going to eat it, you might as well.”

Steve frowns, staring down at his empty bowl. “I’ll make it up to you. Replenish your stock of food tomorrow, when the roads are better.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” says Steve, setting his jaw stubbornly. “And it’s only fair since you’ve been feeding and housing me.”

“Okay, fine,” says Bucky. He softens the words with a light kiss to Steve’s cheekbones, then swipes Steve’s bowl and spoon and puts them in the dishwasher. “Oh, good, I can run this now that the power’s back. Speaking of, is there anything you want to do now that the power’s back? Watch a movie, catch up on email, sink deep into the abyss by watching YouTube videos…”

Steve is quiet for a long moment. Then his cheeks redden and he says, “There’s a playlist on YouTube that I like. It’s music from the past…from my time. It’d be nice to…listen to some of the songs together. But I’ll understand if you don’t want to.”

Bucky’s heart twists a little at the muted hope in Steve’s expression. He wonders if Steve has tried to make this offer before and gotten rejected. “Let me get the tablet and hook it up to my speakers,” he says.

The playlist starts with a Big Band piece that Bucky vaguely recognizes and meanders through various vocal and instrumental pieces that tug at Bucky’s memory. Bucky finds himself tapping his feet and swinging his hips in time to the beat, enjoying the surround-sound experience. He stands and holds out his right hand to Steve, grinning. “Wanna dance?” he asks.

A sad, wistful smile crosses Steve’s face. “I can’t dance.”

“Anyone can dance,” Bucky declares with more confidence than he feels.

Steve’s expression flashes between panic and longing, and he presses himself deeper into the couch. “Buck, I—I don’t know.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Come on, Steve. There’s no one watching. It’s just you and me.” He makes an exaggerated, gallant bow. “Please, may I have this dance?”

Steve worries his lip for a while, and Bucky’s just about to back off when Steve unfolds himself from the couch and gingerly takes Bucky’s hand.

“I don’t really know how to do any swing,” Bucky admits. Bucky rests his hands on Steve’s stiff shoulders, and Steve’s hands flutter indecisively until Bucky takes them and puts them around Bucky’s waist.  They shuffle back and forth in front of the fire, laughing and apologizing as they step on each other’s toes.

They make it through three jazzy numbers before their pace slows as a woman begins to sing sweetly about loving someone with all her heart.

“Vera Lynn,” Steve murmurs. “One of my favorite singers. This song was actually part of a film that came out in 1943. I heard it for the first time after I woke up from the ice.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say. His hands tighten on Steve’s shoulders, which have grown so tense they feel like rocks.

“It was fine, actually. It was nice. Listening to it…it was like I got to go home just for a moment.” Steve clears his throat and pulls away as the song ends, ducking his head and scrubbing at his eyes.

Bucky pulls Steve back to him in a slow, careful hug. Steve rests his chin on Bucky’s shoulder, taking small, shallow breaths. His tears dampen Bucky’s sweater as Bucky runs his hand along Steve’s back in long, soothing strokes. The playlist has moved back to something cheerful and jazzy now, and Bucky reaches over to pause the music, then leads Steve over to the couch.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve says softly, “we were having such a good time.”

“It’s okay,” says Bucky. He wants to get rid of the sadness that hangs over Steve’s frame like a heavy cloak, but he doesn’t know how. “I guess…you know, none of us can ever really home. But as one wise all wizard once said, 'all we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.'" The words feel clumsy on his tongue, and he’s not even sure the quote makes sense in this context, but Steve’s mood seems to lift anyway.

“Thanks, Buck. _Lord of the Rings_ , right?”

“Yeah.” Bucky mentally runs through his fantasy novel trivia and realizes with horror that the book came out after Steve crashed his plane in the Arctic. He opens his mouth to apologize for reminding Steve again of being out of time, but Steve gives Bucky a small smile instead.

“I read _The Hobbit_ when it first came out. Never imagined that Tolkien would write such a huge sequel.” Steve rubs the back of his neck. “I still haven’t read the trilogy yet, but…I really enjoyed the films.”

Bucky takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I, um, I have them. All the extended editions. We could watch them if you want. My family and I, we got the extended DVDs when they first came out, and we did a marathon of the extended editions over winter break during winter break the year before the accident. My sister and I were obsessed with the films and we were determined to make the marathon a tradition. I never…I haven’t done it since. Tried to, actually, during Thanksgiving last month but I could only make it through the first few minutes.”

Steve gazes at him, soft and concerned. “Do you want to do this?”

Bucky glances over at his dusty DVD player and the thick red, blue, and green cases sitting on top. He imagines himself holding on to the DVD set for years and years, never able to open them, never able to rewatch the films that had once held so much meaning to him because they were such a painful reminder of his family. He thinks about what it would be like to create a new memory of the films with Steve, one that doesn’t flood him with grief and regret to the point that he can’t even function, but instead fills him with warmth and happiness, even temporary.

“I want to,” he says, looking Steve in the eye, “Please.”

Steve wraps his arm around Bucky’s shoulders as the opening narration plays, and Bucky curls up against his chest, letting the familiar words wash over him and take him away to a different world. Alpine, who’s been roaming around the house, curls into a ball on Steve’s other side just as Gandalf enters Hobbiton.

Steve starts dozing off halfway through _The Two Towers_. Bucky nudges Steve’s shoulder after he returns from switching out the first and second discs. “Are you tired? Do you want to go to sleep?”

“No,” Steve protests, leaning heavily against the armrest. He squints at Bucky and absently pats Alpine, who lets out a grumpy noise at being disturbed. “We can keep going. You want to, Buck, I can tell.”

Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s almost midnight. Let’s go to sleep and we can finish it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Steve asks in a hopeful tone, perking up. “Buck, you want me to…” The unspoken question hangs in the air. _You want me to spend tomorrow with you too?_

“Well, you promised to deliver me some groceries, remember?” Bucky laughs nervously. He’s not ready for this conversation. He’s too practical to believe that this—relationship, or whatever it is—will last beyond the time Steve is here, what with Steve being Captain America and a superhero with a duty to save the world. But that doesn’t mean that he’s not going to hold on to every moment he can get before Steve has to leave.

“I—yeah, I did promise,” says Steve, his cheeks pink. “You want to—you want to sleep in the bedroom? Together?”

“Yeah,” says Bucky with a grin, “where else?”

Steve’s answering smile lights up his whole face.

Bucky switches on the space heater in the bedroom while Steve banks the fire. They brush their teeth side-by-side, smiling at each other in the bathroom mirror, and then pull back the covers on the bed and settle into a spooning position, both stripped down to their briefs  and with Bucky cradled in Steve’s arms and Alpine at Steve’s back. Bucky leans into the warmth with a contented sigh. “Good night, Steve,” says Bucky, shifting a little so that his head is resting on a pillow instead of on his left arm.

“Good night, Buck,” says Steve, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s neck. “Sleep well.”

* * *

A loud, tinny rendition of Jefferson Starship’s “Black Widow” wakes them at sunrise.

Bucky swears and buries his head under his pillow, disturbing Alpine, who had been lying on the edge of it against the headboard. She promptly climbs on top of Steve trying to get off the bed. Steve groans and throws back the covers, hunting through his backpack in the corner of the room as Bucky swears and tries to get the blankets back on top of his body.

 _“Take my love!_ ” the lead singer wails, his voice getting louder and louder as Steve extracts his phone from wherever it was buried.

Blessed silence reigns for a millisecond, and then Steve says, his voice gone deep and serious, “Rogers.” He turns away, his brow furrowing as he listens to whoever’s on the other end. “Wait – what? Is he all right? No, I’ve been off the grid….Wait, don’t—how did you—that is totally inappropriate…I am not answering that…invasion of privacy…no, I said _no_. Rendezvous in town or not at all.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair. “Actually, I can find my own way…it’ll be a few days…well, just tell them to turn around then—” He looks like he wants to punch something. “Okay. Okay, fine. Twenty minutes. Bring breakfast. Also, did you change my ringtone? Yeah.” Steve rolls his eyes. “I see. Yeah, very funny. Okay. See you.”

Steve turns around, his shoulders curled inward. Bucky sits up, a cold, icy dread filling his veins. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve.” Steve can’t seem to look Bucky in the eye. “I’ve got to go, Buck.”

A lump forms in Bucky’s throat. He wraps his arms around himself. “Oh. Duty calls, huh?”

Steve nods, glancing up miserably before looking down at the floor. “I’m sorry.”

“Well,” says Bucky, trying to keep his voice steady, “You’re coming back, right? You promised me food.”

Steve’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, of course, Buck. I’ll come back with your groceries. It just might take me a little longer, that’s all.”

It’s a lie, and they both know it. Everyone knows what happened the last time Steve made a promise: he laid frozen in the Arctic for seventy years while Peggy Carter moved on with her life. Bucky watches numbly as Steve pulls on his clothes and jacket, and, more subtly, the Captain America persona that he brought out and put away right after revealing his identity to Bucky. He sets his shoulders back, lifts his chin, and sets his jaw like he’s about to march into battle. Steve shoulders his backpack, and that, at last, breaks Bucky’s silence.

“Steve,” he whispers, his voice cracking, “Wait. Please. Just wait. Don’t go yet.”

“Bucky,” Steve starts.

Bucky shakes his head. “Just wait. Please.” He dashes out of the room.

The house is freezing in the early morning chill. Bucky runs to the living room and grabs the old winter coat Steve mended last night. He rummages through his kitchen drawer and finds a printed, glossy photo of the mini-amphitheater left by the Painters, a photo of Alpine as a kitten that Bucky had received from the shelter, and last but not least, a rare photo of himself, standing in front of the house with the “Sold” sign that the real estate agent had given him along with his paperwork. Bucky carefully jots down his address, phone number, and name on a scrap of paper, then places it and the photos in an envelope that he tucks in the inner pocket of the jacket.

Bucky takes a shaky breath, wipes at his eyes and nose, then goes back to the bedroom. Steve is sitting on the edge of the bed with Alpine in his lap, stroking his hand down her back over and over again. “Here,” says Bucky, holding out the sleeves of the coat. “A Christmas gift for you. You should take this to protect yourself against the wind.”

Steve gently lays Alpine on the bed and stands, fitting his arms inside of the coat and zipping it up. It’s tight on him, especially since he’s wearing the leather jacket, but he doesn’t seem to care. Bucky takes Steve’s hand and leads him to the door. He swallows the tears threatening to spill over his cheeks as Steve bends and laces his boots, then smiles tremulously as Steve meets his gaze.

“Bucky,” says Steve, taking a step toward him and holding his arms out. Bucky stiffens, but he lets Steve enfold him in a tight hug. “Thank you for everything,” Steve murmurs into his ear. “And I’m—I’m sorry I have to leave so soon. I don’t want to. I never…” Steve swallows tightly, and he steps back, looking into Bucky’s eyes. “You’re—you’re a good man, truly. I’m glad I met you.”

Bucky’s breath hitches. He leans up and presses a kiss to Steve’s lips, quickly, and then pulls back. “I’ll, um, I’ll see you around,” says Bucky. “Be safe. Stay alive. Don’t die.”

“I’ll do my best,” says Steve, with a sad smile. “See you around, Buck.” He turns and opens the door, and then he walks out.

Bucky listens to Steve clomping across the lawn to the carport. He watches as Steve wheels his bike out and hears him rev the engine. Steve gives one last, lingering look at the house, waves where Bucky’s standing at the window, and then takes off down the gravel path.

Bucky sinks down onto the cold couch, shivering, and for the first time in a long time, he lets himself cry.

* * *

_Two months later_

“Come _on_ ,” Bucky says, resisting the urge to honk his horn at the little blue Volkswagen Beetle meandering up the road. It’s probably some retiree visiting the other retirees in the area, though why they would be up here in the middle of the rainy season is a mystery. Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to temper his irritation, and glances in the rearview mirror, where Alpine stares at him balefully from inside her crate in the back seat. He took her to the vet this morning, and she’s perfectly healthy, but neither of them enjoys the long commute to and from the vet’s office.

He tries not to let his mind drift to Steve—where he might be, what he might be doing, who might be looking after him. Bucky thought that the memory of their couple days together would fade quickly, but it hasn’t. Everywhere he looks, he seems to see reminders of Steve: the _Lord of the Rings_ DVDs that Bucky still hasn’t moved; the fireplace that kept them warm while they danced and slept; the giant pile of logs Steve moved into the living room, which is finally reaching a reasonable size; the mini-amphitheater and lattice arch they’d said their rusty prayers together; the YouTube app on the tablet, which is still giving suggestions for 1940s songs to this day.

The loneliness cuts at Bucky like a knife, especially when he lies alone in his bed at night, staring into the darkness for sleep that never comes. His nightmares, too, have gotten worse; he dreams now of Steve standing above him, calling his name and pulling him off a metal table, jumping over a fiery chasm as a bridge collapses behind him, kneeling in the snow and trying to staunch the bleeding of Bucky’s wounded left arm. Bucky wakes up gasping those nights, flailing and falling out of bed as he tries to ground himself in the present day. Alpine usually helps, jumping down to keep him company on the floor, but it’s not always enough.

He hasn't gotten a single text from Steve or any other unknown numbers. 

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief when the Beetle peels off at the next intersection. “Almost there, Al,” he calls.

An uneventful fifteen minutes later, he’s driving down the narrow stretch of road reserved almost exclusively for Bucky’s route home when Bucky sees it again. The VW Beetle is parked right in front of his driveway. Its hazards are flashing.

“You have got to be kidding me,” mutters Bucky. He puts his own hazards on and parks the car, checks for traffic, and then walks up to the Beetle and knocks on the tinted windshield. “Hello?”

The window rolls down slowly, and Steve Rogers looks up at Bucky with a mischievous grin. “Hey, Buck,” he says. “Am I in your way?”

**Author's Note:**

> The Honeymoon Cabin is located in the Olympic Peninsula in Washington state, and the tourist town closest to the cabin is meant to be Port Townsend, WA.
> 
> The song that Steve and Bucky slow-dance to is Vera Lynn's [With All My Heart](https://youtu.be/FLLPYLkJ7aI). The quote Bucky references is from J.R.R. Tolkien's _The Lord of the Rings (The Fellowship of the Ring)_ :
>
>> “I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo.
>> 
>> "So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”
> 
> * * *
> 
> A comment or kudos is always appreciated!
> 
>  
> 
> [Rebloggable Tumblr post](https://dragongirlg-fics.tumblr.com/post/181573470658/honeymoon-cabin)
> 
>  
> 
> You're always welcome to come say hello:  
> [Tumblr](https://dragongirlg-fics.tumblr.com/) | [Dreamwidth](https://dragongirlg.dreamwidth.org/) | [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/dragongirlg)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Bittersweet Feeling (Longing and I’m Leaving)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20266228) by [dragongirlG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongirlG/pseuds/dragongirlG)




End file.
